Firmament
by Riene
Summary: Elisa and the Creature are together and happy in this short sequel to The Shape of Loneliness.


A/N-This is a very short companion piece to my other story, _The Shape of Loneliness_ , a glimpse of life after Elisa and the Asset escape. I hope you like it. :)

The next story in the sequence is _Paradise Lost._

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Firmament

2018, Riene

Overhead a thousand, a million, more, stars shine red and gold, blue and white, spinning slowly, twinkling, jewels set in a velvet sky of infinite darkness, pressing warm and soft against her skin like a mantle, a blanket. The waves rock them gently, a lullaby of murmurs, the susurrations of waves, of water.

Elisa lay on her back, floating, mesmerized by the stars. Had there always been so many? Or had she never seen them, trapped in her life of concrete and steel, artificial lights and ceilings?

He is all but invisible, the color of the water, the shape of the waves, silent and sibilant and serpentine, circling around her, coming to rest beside her, iridescent markings flashing like the starlight reflecting on the ocean. He is made of starlight and darkness, stars of gold in his depthless eyes.

He is hers, bound to her by love and loss and resurrection.

She is a fairy-creature herself, milky skin like translucent alabaster in the faint starlight, the color of the white band spilling across the cosmos above. Inky hair floats free as seaweed, loose and drifting, and he runs his long agile fingers through it, perplexed and enchanted, mindful of his claws.

She is his, his mate, his existence.

She turns to him and he wraps strong arms around her, swift and sure in his protection. Her legs drift, his, powerful and certain, guide them. She rests her head on his chest, listening to the odd steady heartbeat, and realizes again that it is the rhythm of the waves, the rush and retreat of the tides, the sound of the oceans.

The water is growing steadily warmer, the currents pulling them inexorably southward, toward their destination. _Home_ , he signs simply, and she nods. They spend their days well below the surface; he has learned her fragile skin will burn. He has taught her to swim, to breathe, and though she has not forgotten her fear and tires easily, they are together. Beneath the waters his voice is music, transmuted by the liquid medium into songs of alien beauty, a solo instrument in a sunken cathedral.

She recognizes his name for her, in the sweet soaring notes of utter joy.

She has wanted, desperately at times, to name him, but can find no words for him. He is only Himself, her love, her River God.

Unbound by chains and constraints, he is effortless, dipping and soaring through the water, breaching and diving, invisible in the sparkling sundrops on the waves, hidden in the depthless darkness, in command and at ease in his element.

And yet he is playful, bringing her smooth ivory and pink seashells, lacy coral, pearls and sand-smoothed pebbles as gifts. Together they have explored shipwrecks and sunken volcanoes, made love on white shores.

She thinks they might be in the Florida Keys, or perhaps the Caribbean by now. With no map she can not be certain but the trees, the flowers, the white-gold sands, and the people look like photos she had seen, back in another life. The few times they have been near humans the language has been Spanish, soft and easy, not the staccato rapid speech Yolanda used.

Or perhaps it was Yolanda herself, angry, impatient, who was not soft and easy.

Only one time was she seen. Two children, a boy with solemn dark eyes and a girl, sucking a finger around a wide smile, staring at them. She waved and they grinned back, waving and chattering. The older boy they were with, fishing, did not turn around.

She wonders what stories they would tell, if they would remember.

At night they rise from the waters onto a secluded beach to rest on the warm sand. Her sea-god explores the area on silent feet, returning with a flower to tuck behind her ear and a handful of eggs from a shorebird. She builds a tiny fire from driftwood, making sparks from a piece of old metal and a stone, and together they roast the eggs in the ashes, a welcome change from shellfish.

Resting now in the shallows, he gazes down at her, his mate. So fragile, skin the color of moonlight, eyes like the dark sea. Warm and soft and welcoming. She is clever, his mate, making the flames rise in shimmering waves from the driftwood. He has chosen well.

Perhaps someday there will be a small one, a product of their love, but though they have loved many times she has not yet swelled with life. Perhaps she will not; they are very different, from different worlds, and yet so much the same. It little matters.

They are together, and the stars shine overhead.

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I hope you enjoyed this little piece. Thanks for reading, and please review?


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